Friend.  Read here the worst of News that can arrive,
                             [Gives Bellm. a Letter. 
—­What’s the matter here?  Why, how now,
Sir Timothy, what, up in Arms with the Women?

Sir Tim.  Oh, Ned, I’m glad thou’rt come—­never was Tom Dove baited as I have been.

Friend.  By whom? my Sister?

Sir Tim.  No, no, that old Mastiff there—­the young Whelp came not on, thanks be prais’d.

Bel.  How, her Father here to morrow, and here he says, that shall be the last Moment, he will defer the Marriage of Celinda to this Sot—­ Oh God, I shall grow mad, and so undo ’em all—­I’ll kill the Villain at the Altar—­By my lost hopes, I will—­And yet there is some left—­Could I but—­speak to her—­I must rely on Dresswell’s Friendship—­Oh God, to morrow—­Can I endure that thought?  Can I endure to see the Traytor there, who must to morrow rob me of my Heaven?—­I’ll own my Flame—­and boldly tell this Fop, she must be mine—­

Friend.  I assure you, Sir Timothy, I am sorry, and will chastise her.

Sir Tim.  Ay, Sir, I that am a Knight—­a Man of Parts and Wit, and one that is to be your Brother, and design’d to be the Glory of marrying Celinda.

Bel.  I can endure no more—­How, Sir—­You marry fair Celinda!

Sir Tim.  Ay, Frank, ay—­is she not a pretty little plump white Rogue, hah?

Bel.  Yes.

Sir Tim.  Oh, I had forgot thou art a modest Rogue, and to thy eternal Shame, hadst never the Reputation of a Mistress—­Lord, Lord, that I could see thee address thy self to a Lady—­I fancy thee a very ridiculous Figure in that Posture, by Fortune.

Bel.  Why, Sir, I can court a Lady—­

Sir Tim.  No, no, thou’rt modest; that is to say, a Country Gentleman; that is to say, ill-bred; that is to say, a Fool, by Fortune, as the World goes.

Bel.  Neither, Sir—­I can love—­and tell it too—­and that you may believe me—­look on this Lady, Sir.

Sir Tim.  Look on this Lady, Sir—­Ha, ha, ha,—­Well, Sir—­Well, Sir—­ And what then?

Bel.  Nay, view her well, Sir—­

Sir. Tim.  Pleasant this—­Well, Frank, I do—­And what then?

Bel.  Is she not charming fair—­fair to a wonder!

Sir Tim.  Well, Sir, ’tis granted—­

Bel.  And canst thou think this Beauty meant for thee, for thee, dull common Man?

Sir Tim.  Very well, what will he say next?

Bel.  I say, let me no more see thee approach this Lady.

Sir Tim.  How, Sir, how?

Bel.  Not speak to her, not look on her—­by Heaven—­not think of her.

Sir Tim.  How, Frank, art in earnest?

Bel.  Try, if thou dar’st.